Good-bye, Mrs. John.
[Emerges from behind the partition and carefully draws the hangings.] That's right. I got somethin' to discuss with this here young person. So you young folks c'n see about getting out.
SPITTA and WALBURGA leave hastily. MRS. JOHN locks the door behind them.
So it's you, Pauline? An' what is it you want?
What should I be wantin'? Somethin' jus' drove me here! Couldn't wait no longer. I has to see how everythin' goes.
How what goes? What's everythin'?
[With a somewhat bad conscience.] Well, if it's well; if it's gettin' on nicely.
If what's well? If what's gettin' on nicely?
You oughta know that without my tellin'.
Whatought I to know without your tellin' me?
I wants to know if anythin's happened to the child!
What child? An' what could ha' happened? Talk plainly, will you? There ain't a word o' your crazy chatter that anybody c'n understand!
I ain't sayin' nothin' but what's true, Mrs. John.
Well, what is it?
My child …
[Gives her a terrific box on the ear.] Say that again an' I'll bang my boots about your ears so that you'll think you're the mother o' triplets. An now: get outa here! An' don' never dare to show your face here again!
[Starts to go. She shakes the door which is locked.] She's beaten me! Help! Help! I don' has to—stand that! No! [Weeping.] Open the door! She's maltreated me, Mrs. John has!
[Utterly transformed, embraces PAULINE, thus restraining her.] Pauline! For God's sake, Pauline! I don' know what could ha' gotten into me! You jus' be good now an' quiet down an' I'll beg your pardon. What d'you want me to do? I'll get downonmy knees if you wants me to! Anythin'! Pauline! Listen! Let me do _some_thin'!
Why d'you go 'n hit me in the face? I'm goin' to headquarters and say as how you slapped me in the face. I'm goin' to headquarters to give notice!
[Thrusts her face forward.] Here! You c'n hit me back—- right in the face! Then it's all right; then it's evened up.
I'm goin' to headquarters …
Yes, then it's evened up. You jus' listen to what I says: Don't you see it'll be evened up then all right! What d'you want to do? Come on now an' hit me!
What's the good o' that when my cheek is swollen?
[Striking herself a blow on the cheek.] There! Now my cheek is swollen too. Come on, my girl, hit me an' don' be scared!—- An' then you c'n tell me everythin' you got on your heart. In the meantime I'll go an' I'll cook for you an' me, Miss Pauline, a good cup o' reel coffee made o' beans—none o' your chicory slop, so help me!
[Somewhat conciliated.] Why did you has to go an' be so mean an' rough to a poor girl like me, Mrs. John?
That's it'—that's jus' what I'd like to know my own self! Come on, Pauline, an' sit down! So! It's all right, I tells you! Sit down! It's fine o' you to come an' see me! How many beatin's didn't I get from my poor mother because sometimes I jus' seemed to go crazy an' not be the same person no more. She said to me more'n onct: Lass, look out! You'll be doin' for yourself some day! An' maybe she was right; maybe it'll be that way. Well now, Pauline, tell me how you are an' how you're gettin' along?
[Laying down bank-notes and handfuls of silver, without counting them, on the table.] Here is the money: I don't need it.
I don' know nothin' about no money, Pauline.
Oh, you'll know about the money all right! It's been jus' burnin' into me, that it has! It was like a snake under my pillow …
Oh, come now …
Like a snake that crept out when I went to sleep. An' it tormented me an' wound itself aroun' me an' squeezed me so that I screamed right out an' my landlady found me lyin' on the bare floor jus' like somebody what's dead.
You jus' let that be right now, Pauline. Take a bit of a drink first of all! [She pours out a small glassful of brandy.] An' then come an' eat a bite. It was my husband's birthday yesterday.
[She gets out some coffee-cake of which she cuts an oblong piece.
Oh, no, I don' feel like eatin'.
That strengthens you; that does you good; you oughta eat that! But I is pleased to see, Pauline, how your fine constitootion helped you get back your strength so good.
But now I want to have a look at it, Mrs. John.
What's that? What d'you want to have a look at?
If I could ha' walked I'd ha' been here long ago. I want to see now whatI come to see!
MRS. JOHN, whose almost creeping courtesies have been uttered with lips aquiver with fear, pales ominously and keeps silent. She goes to the kitchen cabinet, wrenches the coffee handmill out and pours beans into it. She sits down, squeezes the mill between her knees, grasps the handle, and stares with a consuming expression of nameless hatred over at PAULINE.
Eh? Oh, yes! What d'you want to see? What d'you want to see now all of a sudden? That what you wanted to throttle with them two hands o' yours, eh?
Me?
D'you want to lie about it?I'llgo and give notice about you!
Now you've tormented me an' jabbed at me an' tortured me enough, Mrs. John. You followed me up; you wouldn't leave me no rest where I went. Till I brought my child into the world on a heap o' rags up in your loft. You gave me all kinds o' hopes an' you scared me with that rascal of a feller up there! You told my fortune for me outa the cards about my intended an' you baited me an' hounded me till I was most crazy.
An' that's what you are. Yes, you're as crazy as you c'n be.Itormented you, eh? Is that what I did? I picked you up outa the gutter! I fetched you outa the midst of a blizzard when you was standin' by the chronometer an' stared at the lamplighter with eyes that was that desperate scared! You oughta seen yourself! An' I hounded you, eh? Yes, to prevent the police an' the police-waggon an' the devil hisself from catchin' you! I left you no rest, eh? I tortured you, did I? to keep you from jumpin' into the river with the child in your womb! [Mocking her.] "I'll throw myself into the canal, mother John! I'll choke the child to death! I'll kill the little crittur with my hat pin! I'll go an' run to where its father plays the zither, right in the midst o' the saloon, an' I'll throw the dead child at his feet!" That's what you said; that's the way you talked—all the blessed day long and sometimes half the night too till I put you to bed an' petted you an' stroked you till you went to sleep. An' you didn't wake up again till next day on the stroke o' twelve, when the bells was ringin' from all the churches, Yes, that's the way I scared you, an' then gave you hope again, an' didn't give you no peace! You forgot all that there, eh?
But it's my child, Mrs. John …
[Screams.] You go an' get your child outa the canal!
[She jumps up and walks hastily about the room, picking up and throwing aside one object after another.
Ain't I goin' to be allowed to see my child even?
Jump into the water an' get it there! Then you'll have it! I ain't keepin' you back. God knows!
All right! You c'n slap me, you c'n beat me, you c'n throw things at my head if you wants to. Before I don' know where my child is an' before I ain't seen it with my own eyes, nothin' an' nobody ain't goin' to get me away from this place.
[Interrupting her.] Pauline, I put it out to nurse!
That's a lie! Don't I hear it smackin' its lips right behind that there partition. [The child behind the partition begins to cry. PAULINE hastens toward it. She exclaims with pathetic tearfulness, obviously forcing the note of motherhood a little.] Don' you cry, my poor, poor little boy! Little mother's comin' to you now!
[MRS. JOHN, almost beside herself, has sprung in front of the door, thus blocking PAULINE'S way.
[Whining helplessly but with clenched fists.] Lemme go in an' see my child!
[A terrible change coming over her face.] Look at me, girl! Come here an' look me in the eye!—D'you think you c'n play tricks on a woman that looks the way I do? [PAULINE sits down still moaning.] Sit down an' howl an' whine till … till your throat's swollen so you can't give a groan. But if you gets in here—then you'll be dead or I'll be dead an' the child—he won't be alive no more neither.
[Rises with some determination.] Then look out for what'll happen.
[Attempting to pacify the girl once more.] Pauline, this business was all settled between us. Why d'you want to go an' burden yourself with the child what's my child now an' is in the best hands possible? What d'you want to do with it? Why don't you go to your intended? You two'll have somethin' better to do than listen to a child cryin' an' takin' all the care an' trouble he needs!
No, that ain't the way it is! He's gotta marry me now! They all says so—Mrs. Keilbacke, when I had to take treatment, she said so. They says I'm not to give in; he has to marry me. An' the registrar he advised me too. That's what he said, an' he was mad, too, when I told him how I sneaked up into a loft to have my baby! He cried out loud that I wasn't to let up! Poor, maltreated crittur—that's what he called me an' he put his hand in his pocket an' gave me three crowns! All right. So we needn't quarrel no more, Mrs. John. I jus' come anyhow to tell you to be at home to-morrow afternoon at five o'clock. An' why? Because to-morrow an official examiner'll come to look after things here. I don't has to worry myself with you no more….
[Moveless and shocked beyond expression.] What? You went an' give notice at the public registry?
O' course? Does I want to go to gaol?
An' what did you tell the registrar?
Nothin' but that I give birth to a boy. An' I was so ashamed! Oh my God,I got red all over! I thought I'd just have to go through the floor.
Is that so? Well, if you was so ashamed why did you go an' give notice?
'Cause my landlady an' Mrs. Kielbacke, too, what took me there, didn't give me no rest.
H-m. So they knows it now at the public registry?
Yes; they had to know, Mrs. John!
Didn't I tell you over an' over again?
You gotta give notice o' that! D'you want me to be put in gaol for a investergation?
I told you as how I'd give notice.
I axed the registrar right off. Nobody hadn't been there.
An' what did you say exackly?
That his name was to be Aloysius Theophil an' that he was boardin' with you.
An' to-morrow an officer'll be comin' in.
He's a gentlemen from the guardian's office. What's the matter with that? Why don't you keep still an' act sensible. You scared me most to death a while ago!
[As if absent-minded.] That's right. There ain't nothin' to be, done about that now. An' there ain't so much to that, after all, maybe.
All right. An' now c'n I see my child, Mrs. John?
Not to-day. Wait till to-morrow, Pauline.
Why not to-day?
Because no good'd come of it this day. Wait till to-morrow, five o'clock in the afternoon.
That's it. My landlady says it was written that way, that a gentleman from the city'll be here to-morrow afternoon five o'clock.
[Pushing PAULINE out and herself going out of the room with her, in the same detached tone.] All right. Let him come, girl.
MRS. JOHN has gone out into the hall for a moment. She now returns without PAULINE. She seems strangely changed and absent-minded. She takes a few hasty steps toward the door of the partition; then stands still with an expression of fruitless brooding on her face. She interrupts herself in this brooding and runs to the window. Having reached it she turns and on her face there reappears the expression of dull detachment. Slowly, like a somnambulist, she walks up to the table and sits down beside it, leaning her chin on her hand. SELMA KNOBBE appears in the doorway.
Mother's asleep, Mrs. John, an' I'm that hungry. Might I have a bite o' bread?
MRS. JOHN rises mechanically and cuts a slice from the loaf of bread with the air of one under an hypnotic influence.
[Observing MRS. JOHN'S state of mind.] It's me! What's the matter, Mrs. John? Whatever you do, don't cut yourself with the bread knife.
[Lets the loaf and the bread-knife slip involuntarily from her hand to the table. A dry sobbing overwhelms her more and more.] Fear!—Trouble!—You don' know nothin' about that!
[She trembles and grasps after some support.
The same decoration as in the first act. The lamp is lit. The dim light of a hanging lamp illuminates the passage.
HASSENREUTER is giving his three pupils, SPITTA, DR. KEGEL and KÄFERSTEIN instruction in the art of acting. He himself is seated at the table, uninterruptedly opening letters and beating time to the rhythm of the verses with a paper cutter. In front of him stand, facing each other, KEGEL and KÄFERSTEIN on one side, SPITTA on the other, thus representing the two choruses in Schiller's "Bride of Messina." The young men stand in the midst of a diagram drawn with chalk on the floor and separated, like a chess-board, into sixty-four rectangles. On the high stool in front of the office desk WALBURGA is sitting. Waiting in the background stands the house steward QUAQUARO, who might be the manager of a wandering circus and, in the capacity of athlete, its main attraction. His speech is uttered in a guttural tenor. He wears bedroom slippers. His breeches are held up by an embroidered belt. An open shirt, fairly clean, a light jacket, a cap now held in his hand, complete his attire.
[Mouthing the verses sonorously and with exaggerated dignity.]
"Thee salute I with reverence,Lordliest chamber,Thee, my high rulers'Princeliest cradle,Column-supported, magnificent roof.Deep in its scabbard …"
[Cries in a rage.] Pause! Period! Period! Pause! Period! You're not turning the crank of a hurdy-gurdy! The chorus in the "Bride of Messina" is no hand-organ tune! "Thee salute I with reverence!" Start over again from the beginning, gentleman! "Thee salute I with reverence, Lordliest chamber!" Something like that, gentlemen! "Deep in its scabbard let the sword rest." Period! "Magnificent roof." I meant to say: Period! But you may go on if you want to.
"Deep in its scabbardLet the sword rest,Fettered fast by your gatewayMoveless may lie Strife's snaky-locked monster.For …"
[As before.] Hold on! Don't you know the meaning of a full stop, gentlemen? Haven't you any knowledge of the elements? "Snaky-haired monster." Period! Imagine that a pile is driven there! You've got to stop, to pause. There must be silence like the silence of the dead! You've got to imagine yourself wiped out of existence for the moment, Käferstein. And then—out with your best trumpeting chest-notes! Hold on! Don't lisp, for God's sake. "For …" Go on now! Start!
"For this hospitable house'sInviolable thresholdGuardeth an oath, the Furies' child…."
[Jumps up, runs about and roars.] Oath, oath, oath, oath!!! Don't you know what an oath is, Käferstein? "Guardeth an oath!!—the Furies' child." This oath is said to be the child of the Furies, Dr. Kegel! You've got to use your voice! The audience, to the last usher, has got to be one vast quivering gooseflesh when you say that! One shiver must run through every bone in the house! Listen to me: "For this house's … threshold Guardeth an oath!!! The Furies' child, The fearfullest of the infernal deities!"—Go ahead! Don't repeat these verses. But you can stop long enough to observe that an oath and a Munich beer radish are, after all, two different things.
[Declaims.]
"Ireful my heart in my bosom burneth…."
Hold on! [He runs up to SPITTA and pushes and nudges the latter's arms and legs in order to produce the desired tragic pose.]—First of all, you lack the requisite statuesqueness of posture, my dear Spitta. The dignity of a tragic character is in nowise expressed in you. Then you did not, as I expressly desired you to do, advance your right foot from the field marked ID into that marked IIC! Finally, Mr. Quaquaro is waiting; so let us interrupt ourselves for a moment. So; now I'm at your service, Mr. Quaquaro. That is to say, I asked you to come up because, in making my inventory, it became clear that several cases and boxes cannot be found or, in other words, have been stolen. Now, before lodging information with the authorities which, of course, I am determined to do, I wanted first to get your advice. I wanted to do that all the more because, in place of the lost cases, there was found, in a corner of the attic, a very peculiar mess—a find that could appropriately be sent to Dr. Virchow. First there was a blue feather-duster, truly prehistoric, and an inexpressible vessel, the use of which, quite harmless in itself, is equally inexpressible.
Well, sir, I can climb up there if you want me to.
Suppose you do that. Up there you'll meet Mrs. John, whom the find in question has disquieted even more than it has me. These three gentlemen, who are my pupils, won't be persuaded that something very like a murder didn't take place up there. But, if you please, let's not cause a scandal!
When something got lost in my mother's shop in Schneidemühl, it was always said that the rats had eaten it. And really, when you consider the number of rats and mice in this house—I very nearly stepped on one on the stairs a while ago—why shouldn't we suppose that the cases of costumes were devoured in the same way. Silk is said to be sweet.
Very excellent! Very good! You're relieved from the necessity of indulging in any more notion-shopkeepers' fancies, my good Käferstein! Ha, ha, ha! It only remains for you to dish up for us the story of the cavalry man Sorgenfrei, who, according to your assertion, when this house was still a cavalry barracks, hanged himself—spurred and armed—in my loft. And then the last straw would be for you to direct our suspicions toward him.
You can still see the very nail he used.
There ain't a soul in the house what don't know the story of the soldier Sorgenfrei who put an end to hisself with a rope somewhere under the rooftree.
The carpenter's wife downstairs and a seamstress in the second story have repeatedly seen him by broad daylight nodding out of the attic window and bowing down with military demeanour.
A corporal, they says, called the soldier Sorgenfrei a windbag an' gave him a blow outa spite. An' the idjit took that to heart.
Ha, ha, ha! Military brutalities and ghost stories! That mixture is original, but hardly to our purpose. I assume that the theft, or whatever it was, took place during those eleven or twelve days that I spent on business in Alsace. So look the matter over and have the goodness, later, to report to me.
HASSENREUTER turns to his pupils. QUAQUARO mounts the stairs to the loft and disappears behind the trap-door.
All right, my good Spitta: Fire away!
SPITTA recites simply according to the sense and without any tragic bombast.
"Ireful my heart in my bosom burneth,My hand is ready for sword or lance,For unto me the Gorgon turnethMy foeman's hateful countenance.Scarce I master the rage that assails me.Shall I salute him with fair speech?Better, perchance, my ire avails me?Only the Fury me affrighteth,Protectress of all within her reach,And God's truce which all foes uniteth."
[Who has sat down, supports his head on his hand and listens resignedly. Not until SPITTA has ceased speaking for some moments does he look up, as if coming to himself.] Are you quite through, Spitta? If so, I'm much obliged!—You see, my dear fellow, I've really gotten into a deuce of a situation as far as you are concerned: either I tell you impudently to your face that I consider your method of elocution excellent—and in that case I'd be guilty of a lie of the most contemptible kind: or else I tell you that I consider it abominable and then we'd get into another beastly row.
[Turning pale.] Yes, all this stilted, rhetorical stuff is quite foreign to my nature. That's the very reason why I abandoned theology. The preacher's tone is repulsive to me.
And so you would like to reel off these tragic choruses as a clerk of court mumbles a document or a waiter a bill of fare?
I don't care for the whole sonorous bombast of the "Bride of Messina."
I wish you'd repeat that charming opinion.
There's nothing to be done about it, sir. Our conceptions of dramatic art diverge utterly, in some respects.
Man alive, at this particular moment your face is a veritable monogram of megalomania and impudence! I beg your pardon, but you're my pupil now and no longer the tutor of my children. Your views and mine! You ridiculous tyro! You and Schiller! Friedrich Schiller! I've told you a hundred times that your puerile little views of art are nothing but an innate striving toward imbecility!
You would have to prove that to me, after all.
You prove it yourself every time you open your mouth! You deny the whole art of elocution, the value of the voice in acting! You want to substitute for both the art of toneless squeaking! Further you deny the importance of action in the drama and assert it to be a worthless accident, a sop for the groundlings! You deny the validity of poetic justice, of guilt and its necessary expiation. You call all that a vulgar invention—an assertion by means of which the whole moral order of the world is abrogated by the learned and crooked understanding of your single magnificent self! Of the heights of humanity you know nothing! You asserted the other day that, in certain circumstances, a barber or a scrubwoman might as fittingly be the protagonist of a tragedy as Lady Macbeth or King Lear!
[Still pale, polishing his spectacles.] Before art as before the law all men are equal, sir.
Aha? Is that so? Where did you pick up that banality?
[Without permitting himself to be disconcerted.] The truth of that saying has become my second nature. In believing it I probably find myself at variance with Schiller and Gustav Freytag, but not at all with Lessing and Diderot. I have spent the past two semesters in the study of these two great dramaturgic critics, and the whole stilted French pseudo-classicism is, as far as I'm concerned, utterly destroyed—not only in creative art itself but in such manifestations as the boundless folly of the directions for acting which Goethe prescribed in his old age. These are mere superannuated nonsense.
You don't mean it?
And if the German stage is ever to recuperate it must go back to the young Schiller, the young Goethe—the author of "Götz"—and ever again to Gotthold Ephraim Lessing! There you will find set down principles of dramatic art which are adapted to the rich complexity of life in all its fullness, and which are potent to cope with Nature itself!
Walburga! I'm afraid Mr. Spitta is taking us for each other. Mr. Spitta, you're about to give a lesson! Walburga, you and your teacher are free to retire to the library.—If human arrogance and especially that of very young people could be crystallised into one formation—humanity would be buried under that rock like an ant under the granite masses of an antediluvian mountain range!
But I wouldn't in any wise be refuted thereby.
Man, I tell you that I've not only passed through two semesters of formal study, but I have grown grey in the practice of the actor's art! And I tell you that Goethe's catechism for actors is the alpha and the omega of my artistic convictions! If you don't like that—get another teacher!
[Pursuing his argument calmly.] According to my opinion, Goethe with his senile regulations for actors denied, in the pettiest way, himself and his whole original nature. What is one to say of his ruling that every actor, irrespective of the quality of the character represented by him, must—these are his very words—show an ogre-like expression of countenance in order that the spectator be at once reminded of the nature of lofty tragedy. Actually, these are his very words!
KÄFERSTEIN and KEGEL make an effort to assume ogre-like expressions.
Get out your note-book, most excellent Spitta, and record your opinion, please, that Manager Hassenreuter is an ass, that Schiller is an ass, Goethe an ass, Aristotle, too, of course—[he begins suddenly to laugh like mad]—and, ha, ha, ha! a certain Spitta a—night watchman!
I'm glad to see, sir, that, at least, you've recovered your good humour.
The devil! I haven't recovered it at all! You're a symptom. So you needn't think yourself very important.—You are a rat, so to speak. One of those rats who are beginning, in the field of politics, to undermine our glorious and recently united German Empire! They are trying to cheat us of the reward of our labours! And in the garden of German art these rats are gnawing at the roots of the tree of idealism. They are determined to drag its crown into the mire!—Down, down, down into the dust with you!
KÄFERSTEIN and KEGEL try to preserve their gravity but soon break out into loud laughter, which HASSENREUTER is impelled to join. WALBURGA looks on in wide-eyed astonishment. SPITTA remains serious.
MRS. JOHN is now seen descending the stairs of the loft. After a little while QUAQUARO follows her.
[Perceives MRS. JOHN and points her out to SPITTA with violent gesticulations as if he had just made an important discovery.] There comes your tragic Muse!
[Approaches, abashed by the laughter of HASSENREUTER, KEGEL and KÄFERSTEIN.] Why, what d'you see about me?
Nothing but what is good and beautiful, Mrs. John! You may thank God that your quiet, withdrawn and peaceful life unfits you for the part of a tragic heroine.—But tell me, have you, by any chance, had an interview with ghosts?
[Unnaturally pale.] Why do you ax that?
Perhaps you even saw the famous soldier Sorgenfrei who closed his career above as a deserter into a better world?
If it was a livin' soul, maybe you might be right. But I ain't scared o' no dead ghosts.
Well, Mr. Quaquaro, how did it look under the roof there?
[Who has brought down with him a Swedish riding-boot.] Well, I took a pretty good look aroun' an' I came to the conclusion that, at least, some shelterless ragamuffins has passed the night there; though how they got in I ain't sayin'. An' then I found this here boot.—
[Out of the boot he draws an infant's bottle, topped by a rubber nipple and half filled with milk.
That's easily explained. I was up there settin' things to rights an' I had little Adelbert along with me. But I don' know nothin' about the rest.
Nobody has undertaken to assert that you do, Mrs. John.
When you considers how my little Adelbert came into the world … an' when you considers how he died … nobody c'n come an' tell me nothin' about bein' a reel mother … But I gotta leave now, sir … I can't be comin' up here for two three days. Good-bye! I has to go to my sister-in-law an' let Adelbert enjoy the country air a little.
[She trots off through the door to the outer hall.
Can you make anything of her wild talk?
There's been a screw loose there ever since her first baby came, an' all the more after it took an' died. Now since she's got the second one, there's two screws what's wobbly. Howsoever, she c'n count—that's a fac'. She's got a good bit o' money loaned out at interest on pawned goods.
Well, but what is the injured party—namely, myself—to do?
That depends on where the suspicion falls.
In this house?—You'll admit yourself, Mr. Quaquaro …
That's true all right. But it won't be long before we'll have a little cleanin' up aroun' here! The widow Knobbe with all her crowd is goin' to be put out! An' then there's a gang in wing B, where there's some tough customers by what Policeman Schierke tells me. Well, they're goin' to come from headquarters pretty soon and blow up that crowd.
There must be a glee club somewhere in the house. At least I hear excellent male voices singing from time to time things like "Germany, our highest glory," and "Who has built thee, noble wood," and "In a cool galley turneth."
Them's the very fellers! That's right! An' they do sing fine! The sayin' is that bad men has no songs, but I wouldn't advise no one to fool withthem! I wouldn't go into that company my own self without Prince. That's my bull dog. You just go an' lay information against 'em an' you won't be doin' no harm, sir.
[QUAQUARO exit.
[Referring to QUAQUARO.] The gleam in his eye demands security. His lips demand cash. His fist portends immediate warning. He's a lucky creature who doesn't dream of him at the end of the month. And whoever dreams of him roars for help. A horrible, greasy fellow. But without him the people who rent this old shell would get no money and the army-treasurer could strike the income of these rentals from his books.—[The door bell rings.]—That Is Miss Alice Rütterbusch, the young soubrette with whom, unfortunately, I haven't been able to make a hard and fast contract yet on account of the way the aldermen of Strassburg shilly shally about their final decision. After my appointment, which I will secure by God's help, her engagement will be my first managerial act.—Walburga and Spitta, march up into the loft! Count the contents of the six boxes marked "Journalists" in order that we may complete our inventory at the proper time.—[To KÄFERSTEIN and DR. KEGEL.] You may withdraw into the library in the meantime….
[He steps forward in order to open the door.
WALBURGA and SPITTA disappear swiftly and very willingly into the loft; KÄFERSTEIN and KEGEL retire into the library.
[In the background.] If you please, step right in, my dear lady! Ibegyour pardon, sir! I was expecting a lady … I was expecting a young lady … But, please, come in.
HASSENREUTER comes forward accompanied by PASTOR SPITTA. The latter is sixty years old. A village parson, somewhat countrified. One might equally well take him to be a surveyor or a landowner in a small way. He is of vigorous appearance—short-necked, well-nourished, with a squat, broad face like Luther's. He wears a slouch-hat, spectacles and carries a cane and a coat of waterproof cloth over his arm. His clumsy boots and the state of his other garments show that they have long been accustomed to wind and weather.
Do you know who I am, Mr. Hassenreuter?
Not quite exactly, but I would hazard …
You may, you may! You needn't hesitate to call me Pastor Spitta from Schwoiz in Uckermark, whose son Erich—yes, that's it—has been employed in your family as private tutor or something like that. Erich Spitta: that's my son. And I'm obliged to say that with deep sorrow.
First of all, I'm very glad, to have the privilege of your acquaintance. I hasten at once to beg you, however, dear Pastor, not to be too much worried, not to be too sorrowful concerning the little escapade in which your son is indulging.
Oh, but I am greatly troubled, I am deeply grieved. [Sitting down on a chair he surveys the strange place in which he finds himself with considerable interest.] It is hard to say; it is extremely difficult to communicate to any one the real depth of anxiety. But forgive me a question, sir: I was in the trophy-chamber.—[He touches one of the armored dummies with his cane.] What kind of armor is this?
These figures are to represent the cuirassiers in Schiller's"Wallenstein."
Ah, ah, my idea of Schiller was so very different! [Collecting himself.] Oh, this city of Berlin! It confuses me utterly. You see a man before you, sir, who is not only grieved, whom this Sodom of a city has not only stirred to his very depths, but who is actually broken-hearted by the deed of his son.
A deed? What deed?
Is there any need to ask? The son of an honest man desiring to become an … an … an actor!
[Drawing himself up. With the utmost dignity.] My dear sir, I do not approve of your son's determination. But I am myself—honi soit qui mal y pense—the son of an honest man and myself, I trust, a man of honour. And I, whom you see before you, have been an actor, too. No longer than six weeks ago I took part in the Luther celebration—for I am no less an apostle of culture in the broadest sense—not only as manager but by ascending the boards on which the world is shadowed forth as an actor! From my point of view, therefore, your son's determination is scarcely open to objection on the score of his social standing or his honourable character. But it is a difficult calling and demands, above all, a high degree of talent. I am also willing to admit that it is a calling not without peculiar dangers to weak characters. And finally I have myself proved the unspeakable hardships of my profession so thoroughly that I would like to guard anyone else from entering it. That is the reason why I box my daughters' ears if the slightest notion of going on the stage seizes them, and why I would rather tie stones about their necks and drown them where the sea is deepest than see them marry actors.
I didn't mean to wound any one's feelings. I admit, too, that a simple country parson like myself can't very well have much of a conception of such things. But consider a father now—just such a poor country parson—who has saved and hoarded his pennies in order that his son might have a career at the university. Now consider, further, that this son is just about to take his final examinations and that his father and his mother—I have a sick wife at home—are looking forward with anxiety and with longing, whichever you call it, toward the moment in which their son will mount the pulpit and deliver the trial sermon before the congregation of his choice. And then comes this letter. Why, the boy is mad!
The emotion of the Pastor is not exactly consciously directed; it is controlled. The trembling of the hand with which he searches for the letter in his inner pocket and hands it to the manager is not quite convincing.
Young men search after various aims. We mustn't be too much taken by surprise if, once in a while, a crisis of this kind is not to be avoided in a young man's life.
Well, this crisiswasavoidable. It will not be difficult for you to see from this letter who is responsible for this destructive change in the soul of a young, an excellent, and hitherto thoroughly obedient youth. I should never have sent him to Berlin. Yes, it is this so-called scientific theology, this theology that flirts with all the pagan philosophers, that would change the Lord our God into empty smoke and sublimate our blessed Saviour into thin air—it is this that I hold responsible for the grievous mistake of my child. And to this may be added other temptations. I tell you, sir, I have seen things which it is impossible for me to speak of! I have circulars in every pocket—"Ball of the Élite! Smart waitresses!" and so on! I was quietly walking, at half past twelve one night, through the arcade that connects Friedrich street with the Linden, and a disgusting fellow sidles up to me, wretched, undergrown, and asks me with a kind of greasy, shifty impudence: Doesn't the gentleman want something real fetching? And these show windows in which, right by the pictures of noble and exalted personages, naked actresses, dancers, in short the most shocking nudities are displayed! And finally this Corso—oh, this Corso! Where painted and bedizened vice jostles respectable women from the sidewalk! It's simply the end of the world!
Ah, my dear Pastor, the world doesn't so easily come to an end—nor, surely, will it do so on account of the nudities that offend or of the vice which slinks through the streets at night. The world will probably outlive me and the whole scurrilous interlude of humanity.
What turns these young people aside from the right path is evil example and easy opportunity.
I beg your pardon, Pastor, but I have not observed in your son the slightest inclination toward leading a frivolous life. He is simply attracted to literature, and he isn't the first clergyman's son—remember merely Lessing and Herder—who has taken the road of literary study and creative art. Very likely be has manuscript plays in his desk even now. To be sure, I am bound to admit that the opinions which your son defends in the field of literature frighten even me at times!
But that's horrible! That's frightful! That far exceeds my worst fears! And so my eyes have been opened.—My dear sir, I have had eight children, of whom Erich seemed our fairest hope and his next-oldest sister our heaviest trial. And now, it seems, the same accursed city has demanded them both as its victims. The girl developed prematurely, she was beautiful … and … But I must mention another circumstance now, I have, been in Berlin for three days and I haven't seen Erich yet. When I tried to see him to-day, he was not at home in his rooms. I waited for a while and naturally looked about me in my son's dwelling. And now: look at this picture, sir!
[Replacing ERICH'S letter in his pocket he extracts therefrom a small photograph and holds it immediately under HASSENREUTER'S eyes.
[Takes the picture and holds it at varying distances from him. He is disconcerted.] Why should I look at this?
The silly little face is of no importance. But pray look at the inscription.
Where?
[Reads.] "From Walburga to her only sweetheart."
Permit me!—- What's the meaning of this?
It simply means some seamstress if not, what is worse, some shady waitress!
H-m. [He slips the picture into his pocket.] I shall keep this photograph.
It is in such filth that my son wallows. And consider the situation in which it puts me: with what feelings, with what front shall I henceforward face my congregation from the pulpit …?
Confound it, what business is that of mine? What have I to do with your offspring, with your lost sons and daughters? [He pulls out the photograph again.] And furthermore, as far as this excellent and sound-hearted young lady is concerned, you're quite mistaken in your ideas about waitresses and such like. I'll say nothing more. All other matters will adjust themselves. Good-bye.
I confess frankly, I don't understand you. Probably this tone is the usual one in your circles, I will go and not annoy you any longer. But as a father I have the right before God, to demand of you that henceforth you refuse to my deluded son this so-called dramatic instruction. I hope I shall not have to look for further ways and means of enforcing this demand.
I won't only do that, but I'll actually put him out of doors.
[He accompanies the PASTOR to the door, slams it behind him and returns alone.
[Waving his arms through the air.] All that one can say here is: Plain parson! [He rushes halfway up the stairs to the loft.] Spitta! Walburga! Come down here, will you?
WALBURGA and SPITTA come down.
[To WALBURGA, who looks at him questioningly.] Go to your high stool over there and sit down on the humorous part of your anatomy! Well, and you, my dear Spitta, what do you want?
You called us both, sir.
Exactly. Now look me in the eye!
SPITTA Certainly.
[He looks straight at HASSENREUTER.
You two want to make an ass of me. But you won't succeed! Silence! Not a word! I would have expected something very different from you! This is a striking proof of ingratitude. Keep still! Furthermore, a gentleman was here just now! That gentleman is afraid in Berlin! March! Follow him! Take him down into the street and try to make it clear to him that I'm neither your bootblack nor his.
[SPITTA shrugs his shoulders, takes his hat and goes.
[Strides up to WALBURGA energetically and tweaks her ear.] And as for you, my dear, you'll have your ears soundly boxed if ever again without my permission you exchange two words with this rascal of a theologian gone to smash!
Ouch, papa, ouch!
This fellow who is fond of making such an innocent face as if he couldn't harm a fly and whom I was careless enough to admit to my house is, unfortunately, a man behind whose mask the most shameless impudence lies in wait. I and my house are in the service of true propriety. Do you want to besmirch the escutcheon of oar honour as the sister of this fellow seems to have done—a girl who disgraced, her parents by coming to an end in the street and the gutter?
I don't share your opinion about Erich, papa.
What's that? Well, at least you know my opinion. Either you give him his walking papers or else you can look out for yourself and find out what it is to get along, away from your parental roof, in a way of life regardless of honour, duty and decency! In that case you can go! I have no use for daughters of that kind!
[Pale and sombre.] You are always saying, papa, that you too had to make your way independently and without your parents.
You're not a man.
Certainly not. But think, for instance, of Alice Rütterbusch.
[Father and daughter look firmly into each other's eyes.
Why should I? Have you a fever, eh? Or have you gone mad? [He drops the whole discussion, noticeably put out of countenance, and taps at the library door.] Where did we leave off? Begin at the proper place.
KEGEL and KÄFERSTEIN appear.
KEGELandKÄFERSTEIN
[Declaim:]
"A wiser temperBeseemeth age.I, being reasonable,Salute him first."
Led and directed by SPITTA appear PAULINE PIPERCARCKA in street dress and MRS. KIELBACKE, who carries an infant on a pillow.
What do you want here? What kind of women are you bringing here to annoy me?
It isn't my fault, sir. The women insisted on coming to you.
No; all we wants is to see Mrs. John.
An' Mrs. John she's always up here with you!
True. But I'm beginning to regret the fact, and I must insist, at all events, that she hold her private receptions in her own rooms and not here. Otherwise I'll soon equip the door here with patent locks and mantraps.—What's the matter with you, my good Spitta? I suppose you'll have to have the goodness to show these ladies the place they really want to go to.
But Mrs. John ain't to be found in her rooms downstairs.
Well, she's not to be found up here either.
The reason is because this here young lady has her little son boardin' with Mrs. John.
Glad to hear it! Please march now without further delay! Save me,Käferstein!
An' now a gentleman's come from the city, from the office of the government guardian office to see how the child is an' if it's well taken care of an' in good condition. An' then he went into Mrs. John's room an' we went with him. An' there was the child an' a note pinned to it what said that Mrs. John was workin' for you up here.
Where was the child boarding?
With Mrs. John.
[Impatiently.] That's simply a piece of imbecility. You are quite wrong.—Spitta, you would have been much better employed accompanying the old gentleman after whom I sent you than aiding these ladies to come here.
I looked for the gentleman you speak of but he was already gone.
These ladies don't seem to believe me. Will you kindly inform them, gentlemen, that Mrs. John has no child in board, and that they are quite obviously mistaken in the name.
I am asked to tell you that you are probably mistaken in the name.
[Vehemently and tearfully.] She has got my baby! She had my baby boardin' with her. An' the gentleman came from the city an' he said that the child wasn't in no good hands an' that it was neglected. She went an' ruined my baby's health.
There is no doubt but what you have mistaken the name of the woman of whom you speak, Mrs. John has no child in board.
She had my baby in her claws, that's what! An' she let it starve an' get sick! I gotta see her! I gotta tell her right out! She's gotta make my little baby well again! I gotta go to court. The gentleman says as how I gotta go to court an' give notice.
I beg of you not to get excited. The fact is that you are mistaken! How did you ever hit on the idea that Mrs. John has a child in board?
Because I gave it to her myself.
But Mrs. John has her own child and it just occurs to me that she has taken it along with her on a visit to her sister-in-law.
She ain't got no child. No, Mrs. John ain't got none! She cheats an' she lies. She ain't got none. She took my little Alois an' she ruined him.
By heaven, ladies, you are mistaken!
Nobody won't believe me that I had a baby. My intended he wrote me a letter an' he says it ain't true an' that I'm a liar an' a low creature. [She touches the pillow on which the infant is resting.] It's mine an' I'll prove it in court! I c'n swear it by the holy Mother o' God.
Do uncover the child. [It is done and HASSENREUTER observes the infant attentively.]—H-m, the matter will not remain long in obscurity. In the first place … I know Mrs. John. If she had had this child in board it could never look as it does. And that is true quite simply because, where it is a question of children, Mrs. John has her heart in the right place.
I want to see Mrs. John. That's all I says. I don't has to tell my business to everybody in the world. I c'n tell everythin' in court, down to the least thing—the day an' the hour an' jus' exackly the place where it was born! People is goin' to open their eyes; you c'n believe me.
What you assert, then, if I understand you rightly, is that Mrs. John has no baby of her own at all, and that the one which passes as such is in reality yours.
God strike me dead if that ain't the truth!
And this is the child in question? I trust that God won't take you at your word this time.—You must know that I, who stand before you, am manager Hassenreuter and I have personally had in my own hands the child of Mrs. John, my charwoman, on three or four occasions. I even weighed it on the scales and found it to weigh over eight pounds. This poor little creature doesn't weigh over four pounds. And on the basis of this fact I can assure you that this child is not, at least, the child of Mrs. John. You may be right in asserting that it is yours. I am in no position to throw doubt on that. But I know Mrs. John's child and I am quite sure that it is, in no wise, identical with this.
[Respectfully.] No, no; that's right enough. It ain't identical.
This baby here is identical enough all right, even if it's a bit underfed an' weakly. This business with the child is all straight enough! I'll take an oath that it's identical all right.
I am simply speechless. [To his pupils.] Our lesson is ruled by an evil star to-day, my dear boys. I don't know why, but the error which these ladies are making engrosses me. [To the women.] You may have entered the wrong door.
No, me an' the gentleman from the guardian's office an' the young lady went an' fetched this here child outa the room what has the name plate o' Mrs. John on it, an' took it out into the hall. Mrs. John wasn't there an' her husband the mason is absent in Hamburg.
POLICEMAN SCHIERKE comes in, fat and good-natured.
Ah, there's Mr. Schierke! What do you want here?
I understand, sir, that two women fled up here to you.
We ain't fled at all.
They were inquiring for Mrs. John.
May I be permitted to ax somethin' too?
If you please.
Jus' let him ax. We don't has to worry.
[To MRS. KIELBACKE.] What's your name?
I'm Mrs. Kielbacke.
You're connected with the society for raisin' children, eh? Where do you live?
Linien street number nine.
Is that your child that you have there?
That's Miss Pipercarcka her child.
[To PAULINE.] An' your name?
Paula Pipercarcka from Skorzenin.
This woman asserts that the child is yours. Do you assert that too?
Sergeant, I has to ax for your protection because suspicions is cast on me an' I'm innercent. The gentleman from the city did come to me. An' I did get my child outa the room o' Mrs. John what I had it in board with …
[With a searching look.] Yes? Maybe it was the door across the way where the restaurant keeper's widow Knobbe lives. Nobody knows what you're up to with that child nor who sent you an' bribed you. You ain't got a good conscience! You took the child an' slipped up here with it while its rightful mother, the widow Knobbe, what it's been stolen from, is huntin' all over the stairs an' halls for it an' while a detective is standin' acrost the way.